THE STRANGER'S NAME
Mistress Betty was the first to recover from terror and surprise. She
too had fixed a pair of large and wondering eyes upon the stranger.
"'Tis the gentleman who brought the letter from his lordship last
night," she whispered to her mistress.
Patience closed her eyes for a moment: her spirit, which had gone
a-roaming into the land of dreams, where dwell heroes and proud knights
of old, came back to earth once more.
"Then he must have guessed my brother was here," she murmured, "and did
it to save him."
But the tension being relaxed, already the bright and sunny nature,
which appeared to be the chief characteristic of the stranger, quickly
re-asserted itself, and soon he was laughing merrily.
"Oh! ho! gone, by my faith!" he said to John. "Odd's life! but he
swallowed that, clean as a mullet after bait, eh, friend Stich?"
It seemed as if he purposely avoided looking at Patience: perhaps, with
the innate delicacy of a kindly nature, he wished to give her time to
recover her composure. But now she came forward, turning to him with a
gentle smile that had an infinity of pathos in it.
"Sir," she said, "I would wish to thank you..."
He put up his hand, with a gesture of self-deprecation.
"To thank me, madam?" he said, with profound deference. "Nay! you do
but jest. I have done nothing to deserve so great a favour."
He bowed to her with perfect courtly grace, but she would not be
gainsaid. She wished to think that he had acted thus for her.
"Sir, you wrong your own most noble deed," she said. "Will you not
allow me to keep the sweet illusion, that what you did just now, you did
from the kindness of your heart, and because you saw that we were all
anxious ... and that ... I was unhappy..."
She looked divinely fair as she stood there beside him, with the rays of
the slanting September sun touching the halo of her hair with a wand of
gold. Her voice was musical and low, and there was a catch in her throat
as she held out one tiny, trembling hand to him.
He took it in his own strong grasp, and kept it a prisoner therein for
awhile, then he bent his slim young figure and touched her finger-tips
with his lips.
"Faith, madam!" he said, "by that sweet illusion, an it dwell awhile in
your memory, I am more than repaid."
In the meanwhile John had pushed open the small door which led to the
inner shed.
"Quite safe, my lord!" he shouted gaily, "only friends present."
Brother and sister, regardless of all save their own joy in this averted
peril, were soon locked in each other's arms. Captain Bathurst had
heard her happy cry: "Philip!" had seen the look of gladness brighten
her tear-dimmed eyes, and a curious feeling of wrath, which he could not
explain, caused him to turn away with a frown and a sigh.
Patience was clinging to her brother, half hysterical, nervous, excited.
"You are safe, dear," she murmured, touching with trembling motherly
hands the dear head so lately in peril, "quite safe ... let me feel your
precious hands ... oh! it was so horrible! ... another moment and you
were discovered! ... Sir!" she added once more, turning to the stranger
with the sweet impulse of her gratitude, "my thanks just now must have
seemed so poor ... I was nervous and excited ... but see! here is one
who owes you his life, and who, I know, would wish to join his thanks to
mine."
But there was a change in his manner now. He bowed slightly before her
and said very coldly,--
"Nay, madam! let me assure you once again that I have done naught to
deserve your thanks. John Stich is my friend, and he seemed in trouble
... if I have had the honour to serve you at the same time, 'tis I who
should render thanks."
She sighed, somewhat disappointed at his coldness. But Philip, with
boyish impulse, held out both hands to him.
"Nay, sir," he said, "I know not who you are, but I heard everything
from behind that door, and I know that I owe you my life..."
"I beg you, sir..."
"Another moment and I had rushed out and sold my life dearly. Your
noble effort, sir, did more than save that life," he added, taking
Patience's hand in his, "it spared a deep sorrow to one who is
infinitely dear to me ... my only sister."
"Your ... your sister?"
"Aye! my sister, Lady Patience Gascoyne, I am the Earl of Stretton,
unjustly attainted by Act of Parliament. The life you have just saved,
sir, is henceforth at your command."
"Indeed, Philip," added Patience, gently, "we already are deeply in this
gentleman's debt. Betty, who saw him, tells me that it was he who
brought me your letter yester night."
"You, sir!" exclaimed Stretton in profound astonishment, "then you
are..."
He paused instinctively, for he had remembered his conversation with
John Stich earlier in the day; he remembered the anger, the wonder,
which he had felt when the smith told him that he had entrusted the
precious letter for Lady Patience to Beau Brocade, the highwayman ...
"Then you are...?" repeated Philip, mechanically.
Patience was clinging to her brother, with her back towards the
stranger, so she did not see the swift look of appeal the slender finger
put up in a mute, earnest prayer for silence. But now she turned and
looked inquiringly at him, her eyes asking for a name by which she could
remember him.
"Captain Jack Bathurst," he said, bowing low, "at your command."